The Consulting Detective and his Blogger
by Ameteur Socialist
Summary: In which Sherlock's injuries result in some interesting conversation and cuddling.


**The Consulting Detective and his Blogger -**  
**In which Sherlock's injuries result in some interesting conversation and cuddling. **

* * *

John came home to the stench of burning plaster and blood.  
The door of 221B Baker Street was peppered with bullet holes, and all that was needed was a slight and hesitant push, and the already open door swung open to reveal an unconscious, black clad man draped over the narrow stairs.  
John's expression was not one of surprise, but weary concern. He bent down and found his steady pulse and a hand gun in his slack grip, which he took and held at the ready. He made his cautious way up the stairs, wary of the remaining attackers, who were doubtless in the apartment. And as he reached the landing and shouldered open the door, his thoughts were very much disappointed.  
Sherlock Holmes was slumped in the armchair, almost as if he were asleep. John lowered the gun and scanned the apartment, most of which was in ruins. Furniture was toppled, papers were strewn about and blood spattered the wallpaper, contrasting eerily with the yellow smiling face. He pursed his lips and made his way over to Sherlock, placing the gun on the coffee table as he did so.  
"Sherlock?" He murmured, giving the detective's shoulder a slight shake. "Sherlock, are you awake?"  
"No," came his rather irritated voice. "I'm asleep. Leave me alone."  
John almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes, a gesture he used frequently around Sherlock, and pressed two fingers to his wrist. His pulse was steady, yet still racing from recent physical exertion.  
"Who broke in this time?" John asked, busying himself with righting the overturned sofa.  
"A group of female assassins felt it necessary to stop my prying into the _accidental_ death of Timothy Lawson," he said, blinking blearily at his ruined surroundings. "Ignore the unconscious woman at the door – she was simply a diversion."  
John nodded, his brow slightly furrowed, and gestured at Sherlock. "You've been hurt – you're holding your side funny."  
The consulting detective frowned and – with some obvious difficulty – looked down at his battered body. He pulled his hand away from where it was pressed against his abdomen, and flexed his blood stained fingers. "Oh."  
John pursed his lips and hurried over, allowing his medical expertise to direct his hands. Without a moment's hesitation, he carefully unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and observed the ragged scar across his flat stomach with professional eyes. "You're lucky – it hasn't gone too deep, although you'll most likely be needing stitches. Does it hurt?"  
He gave his head a slight shake. "Benzodiazepine – it must have been administered during the confusion. Side effects include drowsiness, confusion, dizziness, slurred speech, blurred or doubled vision, distance –"  
"Exactly why you need to get to bed."  
"I can't walk; mild temporary paralysis from the neck down. I'd much rather stay right here."  
John sighed, strode over and – blatantly ignoring Sherlock's loud protests – picked him up with surprising ease.  
"You really need to eat more," John told a scowling Sherlock as he made his way up the stairs.  
"You really need to put me down and leave me alone."  
"You've been stabbed and drugged – I don't think now is the time to tell me to go away."  
The detective simply clumsily folded his arms and assumed an even stormier expression, and John shouldered open his bedroom door and lay him on the bed. He collected a first aid kit from the bathroom and dressed the wound as Sherlock glared at the ceiling.  
"I'll call in to Bart's; see if they can bring someone here to fix you up," John said, stepping away and standing in the doorway as Sherlock tried to shift into a more comfortable position. "Call if you need anything."  
"Yes, I'll be fine."  
"Okay."  
The door closed with a slight noise and John stood on the landing for a few moments before making his way down to the kitchen and flicking the kettle on. Rain tapped on the windows, only adding to the bleak atmosphere, and he settled down on the sofa with a warm cup of tea. He phoned the hospital and sipped his drink as they told him a paramedic would visit early the next morning. He put the phone back in its cradle and looked around the silent, ruined flat, and soon enough a fitful sleep stole him away.

His rest was short-lived, however, and shouts slowly lifted the foggy veil from his mind. The noises were forming words now, names, a single name – _John_!  
He was on his feet before his vision had cleared, and he swore under his breath as he hurried up the stairs, his stomach twisting with worry. The doorknob was cool in his grip, and he threw open the bedroom door to find Sherlock sitting on his bed.  
His knees were drawn up to his chin and his skin was glistening with sweat. His brilliant blue eyes were wide with an emotion rarely seen upon his angular face – fear and worry that made John's breath hitch in his throat.  
"John?" His baritone voice was but a whisper.  
"Sherlock, are you okay?" He took a careful step into the room. "What's wrong?"  
"Side effect of the medicine – I had a nightmare." He was motionless, save for the sneer that suddenly twisted his face. "Nightmare. What a petty game for my mind to play. My mind, John, making me scared and worried –"  
"What was it about?" John asked in a soft tone. He moved the window and ensured that it was closed to the cold and rain, and turned to see Sherlock shaking his head.  
"I don't feel good," came his quiet reply, and John knew he wasn't going to get an answer out of him.  
"We can take you –"  
"No, I'm not going to the hospital."  
John gave the slightest nod and moved over to change the dressing on his wound. His hands moved methodically – unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, unwrapping the bandages and peeling off the gauze, then finally re-applying the dressing. He gave him some painkillers and moved away from the bed, towards the door, and sudden, cold fingers brushed his.  
"I might have another nightmare," Sherlock murmured, his tone timid. "Will you stay?"John froze, his lips unwilling to form words. Brilliant blue eyes sought his, wide and questioning and uncomfortable, and a word surfaced in his mind – a brilliant little word that could spread a smile across someone's face with astonishing ease – and then John uttered this brilliant little word.  
"_Yes_."  
A pleased smile touched Sherlock's lips, and he closed his eyes. John observed his peaceful face for a few moments and finally lay on the opposite side of the bed. He watched the darkness, twisting and turning above him, and his heart and mind came to an unexpected agreement. He banished the uncertainty clutching at him, and moved over and draped an arm over the sleeping man.  
John could almost feel Sherlock's content and the dark haired detective sidled closer to him, giving off the air of a satisfied feline.  
"Okay," John whispered into Sherlock's shoulder. "I may be slightly gay."  
Sherlock's slight frame shook with silent laughter, and together they eventually fell into a dreamless sleep – the consulting detective and his blogger.


End file.
